“Each person with dementia is a person first. They are the person they were, the person they are and the person they are becoming. They may lose abilities with the disease, but they retain their personhood. This must be at the centre of our understanding, and the foremost thought in every interaction.” Ann Peachman Stewart
Ernest had sung for years in a prestigious choir in Toronto. His beautiful daughter still did. He loved classical music, and listening to it helped to calm his anxiety. He no longer sang because his form of dementia had stolen his words and he communicated mostly by gestures or looks.
A beautiful tradition at work occurred every year before Christmas. The staff would gather in the foyer and then walk the halls, singing Christmas carols. I joined in, and when we went down the halls of my section, I saw Ernest hovering at his door. Something in his body language seemed to yearn for the music, so I crooked my arm, inviting him to join us. He did, and in a few minutes, I heard the most beautiful baritone singing “Joy to the World.” This man who hadn’t talked for months sang the words flawlessly. Ernest shared his gift of music with me.
Frances is blind, so when she heard I wore lacy tights one day, she ran her hand up and down my leg to “see” them. “Oh my,” she commented. “You should lift your dress higher to show them off more.” I grinned and suggested perhaps something should be left to the imagination. She sniffed and said, “You won’t get far doing that!” Frances made me laugh.
Doreen sits in a wheelchair most of the time, although she can walk a little with a walker if someone stands beside her. She used to love to ballroom dance with her husband, who is gone now. When certain music is playing, her feet begin to twitch. Her care partner comes to her, helps her up and holds her, and together they begin to dance. Doreen’s face glows. The dance is still in her.
Elizabeth is a gracious hostess. While I was walking her and other residents to lunch and getting them settled at their tables, she asked me, “Will you join us?” Strictly speaking, it wasn’t my lunch hour, and usually after everyone was settled, I either assisted someone who needed help with their meal or caught up on paperwork. However, I assured Elizabeth I had a few more people to help into the dining room, and then I would join them. When free, I grabbed my salad and sat at the table with that group of ladies. Elizabeth presided over a 
delightful lunch which I thoroughly enjoyed.
Each of these residents had losses–physical, cognitive, losses of spouses, a home they loved. But each of them retained their personhood, and were able to offer it to me and others every day